The Phoenix Murders
by lokilette
Summary: In the middle of the 20th century, Great Britain is introduced to a new serial killer: The Phoenix. To the majority of the populace, he's a shadow bent on "freeing" people from their burdens, but Albus Dumbledore knows the truth about Gellert Grindelwald and is now caught in an endless struggle to stop the man who murdered his sister. Muggle!AU. Rated M for language and violence.
1. A Phoenix Is Born

**Author's Note: **Timeline Shift. I thought I should make this clear. Because this is Muggle!AU, the timeline's a bit skewed. Since Grindelwald and Dumbledore died when they were 115, I've pushed their births up 30 years, so they would be born around 1911. Riddle and McGonagall were born around 1925. Sirius, James, and Lily were born around 1939 - 1940, so Harry was born in 1960. It's a bit wonky. I blame the Muggles.

* * *

**1921**

"_Let's go." The old man held out a grimy hand, deep lines etched into the palm, puckered skin and dirt-caked nails facing the ground._

_Gellert paused, turning back to the flames. His eyes lingered on the red-and-yellow tongues that lapped eagerly at the wooden frame. The screaming had finally stopped. He had imagined his parents would just sort of slip off in their sleep, succumbing to the smoke, but at some point his mother had woken up. Her shrieks, almost unworldly with the way death contorted them, drowned out the roaring of the fire, despite the distance._

"_This is what you wanted, remember?" The voice was soft, like the whisper the flames had made when they got their first taste of wood. "I've set you free."_

**~(X)~**

Gellert couldn't remember when exactly the man first showed up at the park. Yet, his presence was a given. Every day, on his way home, the old man bowed his head in greeting, but like everyone else, Gellert ignored him—at first, anyway.

Maybe he'd always been there and everybody had just failed to notice. Like the fear that lurked deep in Gellert's gut like a demon, twisting his insides. Like the blue and purple splotches that marred his skin. Like the creeping dread that told him he would die, sooner rather than later, and that it would mean nothing to the world. Less, even, than a quiet old man on a park bench feeding the birds.

**~(X)~**

The house rattled angrily, front door calling out a warning like a siren going off in the night. Before he was even fully awake, Gellert was out of bed and on his feet, scurrying over to the closet. Noiselessly, with slow, deliberate movements, he hoisted himself onto the top shelf, pulling as much junk in front of him as he could so he wouldn't be seen.

The shouting had already begun downstairs, but it was muffled just enough so he couldn't discern any words. It was little more than animated gibberish. He pressed his palms hard against his ears, but the noise still filtered through.

The stairs creaked and groaned as large, incensed feet thundered up them. An instant later, his door was nearly thrown off its hinges, and Gellert held his breath. Time to pretend he didn't exist. He'd had enough practice that he should already be a veritable expert on that subject. Though, some nights it worked better than others.

"Where the hell is your son?" His father's words were slurred and barely intelligible, but it wasn't the words Gellert feared. Even at their meanest, they were nice enough compared to what would happen if he was found.

"I-I d-don't know." His mother's voice was so frail, like a piece of glass on the verge of shattering into a million pieces.

"What the hell do ya mean ya don't know? Ain't it your job to know what your son's up to? Goddamnit, I go out and bust my back _all day_ so ya can sit on your fat ass and do what exactly? The house looks like shit, dinner was disgusting, and ya don't even know where your fucking son is."

"I'm sorry. I—"

There was the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh, and his mother's voice dissolved into a soft, pitiful sob. Gellert inhaled sharply and bit his tongue. He remained true to his goal: he did not exist.

After an agonizing silence, his father said, "What the fuck do I care what he does? If we're lucky, he won't turn back up. One less mouth to feed."

The angry slurs and thumping receded back down the stairs, but Gellert remained where he was, immobile, melting into the darkness. How much time passed? Minutes? Hours? Gellert didn't dare move until a stillness settled over the house like a mother hen coming to nest. His father must have passed out.

With a bit of effort, Gellert climbed down from his hiding spot, working the ache out of his muscles as they protested the prolonged inactivity. Being cramped in a tight spot didn't help the situation any, either. Pretty soon, he would outgrow that hiding place, but Gellert was afraid to imagine what would happen then.

**~(X)~**

There was no telling exactly what possessed him to do it, but somehow, Gellert found himself in front of the park bench, staring into eyes as clear and bright as the sky that day.

"Why are you here?" It wasn't what Gellert had planned to say, but then again, he hadn't thought through the encounter at all. His feet had simply moved, and the rest of him followed.

"Because I rather like this park and this bench." The answer was simple and not unkind, accompanied by a mirthful twinkle in his eye.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"I have other places I _should_ be, sure." The old man tore several chunks of bread off what was left of his loaf and tossed them to the birds. "But nowhere else I _want_ to be. And since my will is my own, I sit here, as I wish. I'm afforded at least that much freedom."

In all his life, Gellert had never been afforded a wish, let alone freedom. He wondered what it felt like. Like the wind through your hair on the banks of a whispering river? Like the warm breeze kissing your skin as you stretched out on the cool grass? Was it sweet like chocolate, with a taste that lingered on your tongue, tempting you to want more and more?

Gellert said nothing, and it spoke volumes.

"Would you care to sit?" the old man asked, scooting to the edge of the bench to make room.

Nobody had ever asked what he cared for, nor cared to do, so Gellert didn't know what the right answer was. Instead, he took it as an order, and sat. The bench was rough, weathered from use and time, but the splintered wood felt more a throne than anything. In that moment, he had _chosen_ it, and that, he figured, must be the first step to freedom.

"I'm Gellert," he said, though the old man hadn't asked.

"I'm Percival." The man leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. "And also happy to share my bench, whenever you want."

There was that word again. _Want_. Something Gellert had never been permitted to do. But the more he thought about it, the more he enjoyed the way it felt.

**~(X)~**

Gellert raced through the monochrome fields, trying to outrun the rain. If he got soaked on his way home, he'd stay soggy for hours, and that wasn't an option. The last time that had happened, the water had leached into his bones, sapping his strength and leaving him weak, pale, and with pneumonia. It wasn't an experience he wanted to relive.

He pressed his treasure firmly against his chest, shielding it with his body. In the event that it did rain, he would have to slip it under his shirt and hope that afforded some amount of protection. It was far too valuable to risk getting wet.

Before long, the house loomed in the distance. He was going to make it! Gellert threw the front door open and slipped inside just as the sky began to shed fat raindrops over the countryside.

"Oh, you've made it before the rain." His mother was already cooking dinner, wearing her hair over her face to cover the angry, red mark on her cheek. "What have you got there?"

"It's a book, Mother! Look, an honest-to-goodness, real book!"

Gellert held it out for her to see. The binding was coming unraveled, and the pages were dog-eared and torn in places. But it was his, and he was proud of every old, dirty page of it.

"Where did you get a book from?" She held a trembling hand out, stopping with her fingertips just shy of the cover as if it would crumble to dust should she dare to touch it. He knew his mother had loved to read, before her marriage. Before her husband had decreed that women had no use for such things.

"A man at the park gave it to me. He's always there, sitting on a bench. Said it was so old and he'd read it so many times, he didn't want it no more."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to take things from strangers?"

"Yes, but, Mother, it's a _book_."

A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, and her stern facade cracked just a little.

"What the hell do _you_ need a book for?" His father swaggered in, and even from across the room the stench of alcohol bowled over Gellert.

Whatever flicker of light had danced in his mother's eyes was extinguished. Gellert had been so preoccupied that he hadn't realized his father was already home. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

"You're almost old enough to get a job now, an' ya can leave all that learnin' an' nonsense behind you."

Gellert remained silent. He glanced at his mother, but she just looked away.

"Answer when I talk to ya, boy. What are ya gonna do with a book?"

"I-I thought I'd r-read it, s-sir." It was pathetic, the way his voice quivered, but he couldn't seem to steady it, regardless of how hard he tried.

"Read? You're so damn stupid, I doubt ya even know how. Give it here."

Before Gellert could react, the book was yanked from his grasp. He scrambled to reclaim it, but all he received for his efforts was a jolt of pain as he was knocked backwards. Tentatively, he raised his fingers to his cheek. The skin tingled, and it was already hot to the touch. He knew what his father was planning, and he couldn't let it happen. He steadied himself in preparation for a second attempt.

"No! That's mine!" He lurched for the book again and was sent sprawling this time. The brunt of the fall was absorbed by his spine, sending waves of pain tearing through his body.

"Look what it's done already. Made ya forget who's in charge. I'm putting an end to it."

By the time Gellert managed to push himself into a seated position, his father had already pitched the book—_his_ book—into the fireplace. The tongues gobbled it up greedily, roaring as if they were laughing at him.

Something sparked inside his gut, scorching, burning: hatred. It flooded him with a warmth that boiled his blood and singed his soul.

In a flash, he was out the door and back out in the downpour. No one tried to stop him. Gellert was numb to the biting rain and the insidious cold. If he was lucky, this time pneumonia would take him and be done with it.

He wasn't sure where he would go, but after a while, he stumbled into the park. It was deserted; most people were probably home eating dinner with their families by now—if they had one, anyway. He found an abandoned bench and collapsed on it, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Time passed—minutes, hours, days, who knew how long—but the rain never stopped and he never moved. Eventually, the old man showed up, like always, groaning as he coaxed his body to sit.

"Your book—I'm sorry," Gellert whispered.

"Oh? Did it get wet?" His tone was unaffected; he seemed unconcerned by the tragic fate of the book he had gifted to the boy.

"No." A whirlwind of emotions surged inside him, and the more Gellert tried to capture the words, the more the fire burned in his gut. He clenched his hands, fighting against the anger and the cold that involuntarily made his body shiver. All he could manage to squeeze out was, "I hate him."

"Hate is an awfully strong word, son. You shouldn't use it lightly."

"I'm not. I hate him! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" His voice broke, and he clenched his jaw to bite off the rest, forcing the ache in his face upward, where it blossomed into a full-fledged headache. "I wish—I wish he were dead."

Percival looked sideways at him, as though he was summing him up in one glance. Gellert could see him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze trained at the ground.

"You really want that, don't you, son?"

"Yes." And he did. With every fiber of his being, he did. But he had to go back there—to that house, to those people. He had nowhere else to go. There was no way for him to ever truly be free.

**~(X)~**

Gellert realized, as soon as his back touched the wall, that he had made a grave mistake in letting himself be cornered. Such a foolish blunder, one he would pay for dearly. His father was close now, too close, and the fetor of alcohol on his breath made Gellert gag.

"I heard ya been dodging work, ya lousy, good-for-nothing son of a bitch!"

The first blow came, and, even though he was expecting it, his knees quivered and his eyes watered. The belt snapped a second time, laying open the skin on his leg in a long, angry line that immediately began to ooze blood.

Of course Gellert had shirked work; he had practically said as much when his father insisted on pulling him out of school to take a place in the factory. Not in so many words, of course—he wasn't stupid enough to egg his father on—but it had been implied. He had no intention of wasting his life slaving away for nothing like his father. He wanted to be somebody.

The sharp crack of the belt sounded again, but Gellert could barely hear it over the whoosh of his pulse in his ears as he clenched his jaw. _I will not cry. I will not scream._ The effort of bottling everything in made his whole body shake as the belt snapped again and again. A small sound slipped out, and he cursed himself for being so weak and giving his father the satisfaction.

Every inch of his body ached, but he couldn't tell if it was from the beating or from the effort it took to not give in to the mind-numbing pain or the blackness that threatened to pull him under.

Gellert looked over to his mother, whose face was blanched white, hand shaking as she held it over her mouth to stifle whatever words nipped at her lips. When she caught him looking, she averted her gaze, but he knew that they were thinking the same thing.

_Why won't anyone save me?_

**~(X)~**

"I could run away, y'know." Gellert kicked his legs off the park bench, one at a time, back and forth, left then right. He leaned forward in his seat to give them more momentum. It hurt, but he found comfort in that. At least he could still feel something at all.

"Wouldn't your parents be upset?" Percival's voice was soft, as always, and barren like the desert. It neither jumped nor plummeted but constantly walked the same, narrow line.

"No." Gellert scoffed, kicking harder. "My father wouldn't even care. He's too drunk and stupid to notice."

"And your mother?"

"Who knows?" There was a trace of guilt that knitted its way through his chest, but he quickly suppressed it. Whatever choices she had made were hers to live with. It wasn't his fault that her decisions led her down a long, destructive road.

"Tell me, is that really what you want, son? You truly want your parents out of the picture?"

Gellert hesitated, just for a moment, because his parents were all he had known, in all of his ten years. But what had they ever done for him except tear him down? If he stayed, he would live forever in the same festering hellhole that bred hatred and stupidity. Each day that passed would chisel away any and all hopes of a future he ever harbored. In order to survive, he would have to let them go.

"I'm sure."

"Where will you go?"

"Somewhere. Anywhere. It doesn't matter."

"I understand. You just want to be free, right?"

"Yes."

The man carefully pulled something out of his pocket, plastic crinkling with the effort. He extricated a single candy and held it out.

"Sherbet lemon?"

"Thank you." Gellert took it gingerly, like it was worth all the gold in the world. He could count on one hand the number of times he had been offered candy, and several had taken place in that very park with that same man. The treat was truly something to be savored, and he afforded it all the reverence it deserved, rolling it slowly around his tongue.

"Not everyone wants what they say. Freedom isn't always what it's made out to be. I freed a girl once from the boys that tormented her—three of them—but I could not free her from the demons that plagued her. Not everyone can handle freedom."

"I can handle it. I want—No, I _need_ to be free."

**~(X)~**

_Gellert slipped his hand into the older man's, an eerie sense of tranquility overtaking him as strong fingers gripped it tight. He walked away from the smoldering ashes that remained of his life, vowing to never look back. He had become a phoenix._


	2. A Bird Learns To Fly, Part I

**1930**

"_You still haven't had a chance to meet the Dumbledores yet, have you? I would think you'd have had time, with how much time you've spent skulking around this week, but maybe not."_

"_I don't skulk, Auntie." Gellert did his best to keep the drone of boredom from seeping into his tone. A pin-prick of pain had started pulsating somewhere behind his forehead, and the more she talked, the more momentum it gained._

_Godric's Hollow. Such a garish name, though it suited the quaint, hole-in-the-wall village. Few people lived there, and even less cared to visit. His great aunt afforded him an excuse to be there, a roof over his head, and some food, but he couldn't care less about Batty Bathilda. No, he had a mission, and that was his sole concern._

"_They're a bit of an odd bunch," she continued, as if he'd never said anything. "Keep to themselves a lot. But the oldest boy, Albus, is right about your age. I'll have to introduce you."_

_Her assessment of her neighbors left much to be desired. As far as Gellert was concerned, the Dumbledores were quite a fascinating family. He had lurked in the shadows like a thief, stealing snippets of conversations. It was amazing, the sorts of things people would confess to when they thought no one was listening._

_Absentee father, carted off for the murder of three boys and never heard from again. No one bothered looking; he was presumed dead. Recently deceased mother, murdered by her daughter in an outburst of pent-up aggression. The youngest child was a secret, a girl with some obvious mental deficiencies whose implication in her mother's death was swept under the rug by her brothers. The middle child was an oafish boy—quick with anger, slow with wit—who spent an unhealthy amount of time with a particular goat. And the oldest boy…_

"_Flamel's fortune! There's Albus now. Well, no sense in putting this off. Albus!" The old bat waved her hand frantically to flag him down. "Albus, be a dear and come here right quick. There's someone you should meet."_

_The eldest Dumbledore was a fine specimen of a man. His hair fell around his long face like a mane of fire, lit by sunlight, as he approached them. He had certainly been afforded all the handsomeness that accompanied youth and possessed both a remarkable stock of arrogance and enough wit to justify it. And his eyes, Gellert noted, with a pang of nostalgia—he had his father's eyes._

"_Albus, I'd like you to meet my great-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald. He'll be staying with me for the summer. Gellert, this is—"_

"_Albus Dumbledore. I've heard a lot about how brilliant you are." Gellert extended his hand and offered a small smile._

"_Really? I'm afraid to say, I've never heard of you before in my life." Albus' grip was strong as they shook hands, and in that moment, they shared a lifetime's worth of conversations. The pressure built up, neither of them wanting to be outdone, until, finally, they released their grips simultaneously._

"_Yes, well, some people don't feel the need to flaunt their accomplishments. I assume you're familiar with the idea of humility?"_

_The comment earned him a brief tongue-lashing from his great-aunt about the proper etiquette for meeting someone, or at least that was the gist of it. Gellert didn't catch every word. He was focused, instead, at the faintest ghost of a smile that played at the edges of those thin lips. There was a twinkle in those sapphire eyes that was reminiscent of the old man he had met at the park nearly a decade ago._

_His instincts had been precise; Albus was everything Gellert had hoped he would be and then some._

**~(X)~**

Albus wasn't sure what to make of Gellert Grindelwald. He wasn't thrilled with having the man's crazy great-aunt as a neighbor in the first place, what with her nosy habits. The woman was like a bloodhound, sniffing out juicy tidbits of gossip. She was little more than a nuisance, but her great-nephew … Well, that remained to be seen.

He certainly appeared to be from a different ilk than the typical Godric's Hollow resident, not that there were many left in this godforsaken hellhole. The smart ones got out when they had a chance, and the rest were content with wasting away their miserable existence as the world passed them by.

But this Grindelwald—he had come here, of all places, willingly. Eagerly, almost. It was irrational, especially when Albus himself would give anything for the opportunity to escape. He had turned down an invitation to study at Oxford purely out of necessity, but he would leave it all behind in a heartbeat if the opportunity presented itself.

That meant this Grindelwald character was either a dunce or a nutter. The only way to know for sure would be to test his motives. Regardless, Albus was certain there was more to the brooding blond than simply an altruistic need to check up on a distant relative.

**~(X)~**

Albus went round to the Bagshot residence the next day to offer Gellert a proper tour of the village. It was a good excuse to escape his house for a while, if nothing else, and Gellert appeared to be equally eager to rid himself of his great-aunt. To that extent, at the very least, he appeared to be a perfectly rational man.

The rainy season had ended, so the day was warm and calm. They had that much in their favor as they took to the road that traversed the hollow. The dirt and stones crunched under their weight. They didn't bother actually stopping to look at things along the way. It was obvious that a disinterest in Godric's Hollow was something they had in common.

"So, where are you from?" Albus asked.

"A little bit of everywhere, I suppose. I've done a lot of traveling the past several years. But I dare say what you meant to ask is why I'm here. I'll be starting Cambridge this fall, and seeing as how my great-aunt is funding part of my education, I thought it only proper to thank her in person."

"Cambridge? What ever would you want to go there for?"

"It's really the only suitable institution in the country."

"Hardly. Everyone knows Oxford is the place to be."

Gellert scoffed. "Sure, if you don't mind being a couple years behind in what you're learning."

Gellert glanced sideways at him, and when their eyes met, Albus' soul shuddered. He wasn't sure exactly what caused it. Perhaps it was the fear-inducing, earth-shattering revelation that someone else was capable of reading every second of his life and deciphering the intent. Maybe it was the ego-bruising recognition that he could no longer claim a superiority that had always come naturally but, instead, that he would have to earn it. In the end, Albus decided it was all that and then some; he had finally found someone he could consider an equal.

"I assume, then, that you're going to Oxford this year," Gellert said. It wasn't exactly a question, but Albus decided to address it as one.

"I was. Figured I'd spend a year traveling and then start my studies, but..."

"But?"

Albus could feel those steely eyes boring holes through his facade without even looking. When had the conversation turned back to him, anyway? He had to remember to keep his wits about him. This wasn't one of the normal pea-brained peasants he was used to dealing. Even a little slip and he could easily say too much.

"Well, things came up," he said with a shrug.

Gellert seemed content with that answer, and they lapsed into silence as they made their way to the chapel at the end of Church Lane.

"Really not much here to see, is there?" Gellert asked as he took a seat on the top step, just before the door of the church.

"No. Some cottages, a couple shops, a shoddy pub that residents use as an excuse to remain perpetually drunk."

"And a church." Gellert flashed a small grin as he threw his thumb over his shoulder to motion toward the building behind him.

"Ah, yes, of course. And a church."

Their conversation was interrupted when a screech of "Albus Dumbledore!" broke through the silence of the hollow. A slight prick of pain began to throb in the front of his head. Aberforth must be at it again. God, he was such a brash, annoying teenager. Albus wished that, _just once_, he would consider the consequences rather than firing off the first thought that popped into that tiny, little brain of his.

Sure enough, when Albus turned to look, there was Mrs. Abbott stamping her way up Church Lane, towing Aberforth along by the ear. It was incredible that he didn't have an elongated lobe by now, with how often he was dragged around by it.

Mrs. Abbott had hiked up the front of her forest-green dress with her spare hand, but the back of it still trailed the dirt, leaving a swirling cloud of dust in her wake. The black feather in her silk-trimmed, straw hat pitched and bobbed angrily as she approached.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Abbott. You're looking quite lovely today," Albus said with a smile.

"None of that now, Albus. You won't placate me so easily. Not this time. You'll never guess what your brother's been up to."

Albus wasn't so sure of that. No, he was fairly certain he'd be able to guess it. His brother wasn't particularly creative, and there were already numerous theories fluttering around his brain. That was obviously not her actual intention, though, so he simply said, "Oh? What's he done now?"

"I caught your brother throwing _goat dung_ at people as they were leaving the pub!" She yanked hard on the ear in her left hand, and Aberforth winced but remained silent. At least he had that much sense.

"I apologize for my brother, Mrs. Abbott, but—"

He was cut short as Gellert started to chuckle. Very soft, very boyish, and far too short-lived. Albus almost wished he'd continued.

"You find this amusing?" Mrs. Abbott snapped, turning her hawkish stare on him. He seemed largely unaffected by her attempts at intimidation.

"Perish the thought, ma'am. There is nothing at all funny about a boy disrespecting his elders."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Forgive me for my rudeness. I couldn't help but think that they would have truly been shit-faced, in every meaning of the term."

Mrs. Abbott's frown quivered, a smirk threatening to break her stern countenance. She managed to regain her composure before that happened, but when she spoke again, her words had lost their bite.

"Yes, well, I'll leave him in your care, Albus, and I trust you can handle the situation?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Fine then." With a huff and a flurry of fabric, she stormed back down Church Lane.

"Aberforth—" Albus began, but his brother simply crossed his arms and looked away.

"Don't bother. I don't wanna hear it."

"Of course you don't, because you hear it almost every day! You think I'm not tired of saying it? Jesus Christ, I know you're not nearly as stupid as you look, which is lucky for you because you sure looked like a damned fool being dragged around by your ear."

"What are you even doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be at home?"

"She's not a child anymore. I don't need to spend every minute playing mama bird to her. I have a life, too. And where were you? Out playing with shit. Please, Aberforth, spare me the lectures."

Albus started when Gellert cleared his throat from a few feet away, having completely forgotten the other man was there.

"I should be on my way. I suppose Auntie will be expecting me, and it looks like you have family matters to attend to. It's been a lovely chat, Albus," he said, nodding his head ever-so-slightly. "We should do it again sometime. Take care, for now."

Gellert was down the church steps and already striding along Church Lane before Albus could even utter a word. It wasn't a question. He seemed to have a rather bad habit of doing that. What was even more frustrating was that of course he would call on Gellert again. He had to. Intelligent conversation was in short supply in Godric's Hollow, and there was no way he'd let the chance slip through his fingers. Not with everything else he'd been forced to give up.

"Let's go home. Don't." Albus shook his head as Aberforth opened his mouth, presumably to argue. "Let's just go home. Together."

Aberforth trailed several meters behind him the whole walk to the house, dragging along like a dog on a chain. How foolish they must look! The residents of Godric's Hollow pitied them—the poor, orphaned Dumbledores. The look in their eyes made bile rise in his throat—judging them like an old work horse that no one had the heart to put down.

God, what must Gellert think after witnessing that outburst? Albus knew he shouldn't care about the newcomer's opinions. A wave of warmth filled his body, causing his cheeks to tingle. He had to admit, infuriating though it was, that he did very much care what the winsome stranger's opinion of him was. A fresh wave of anger washed over him, but he swallowed his bitterness as they approached the house.

"Look now, it's still in one piece," he called over his shoulder. Aberforth simply huffed, but Albus noted the relief that softened his features and unknitted his brows. His brother never was good at hiding his emotions, whatever they were.

Aberforth rushed ahead of him, slamming the door open and calling out, "Ariana! We're home! Where have you gotten yourself to now?"

He rushed off to another room, and Albus took the liberty of closing the door behind them. They did not live in a barn, but it was no use trying to impress that on his brother. Aberforth probably would've been happier if they did. Albus swept his eyes around the living room, surveying every inch of it. Everything was in order. She had been well-behaved while they were gone. That was a relief, at the very least.

He followed the sound of Aberforth's voice into the small room in the back that had been a study in its former life. Now, it was simply an amalgamation of things they weren't quite ready to get rid of and had nowhere else to put. His brother and sister were on the floor, bent over papers that were decorated with ink scribbles.

"Oh, you sure have been busy while we were gone, haven't you?" Aberforth was saying when he walked in. "They're all beautiful."

Ariana handed him a piece of paper and offered him a meek smile.

"Yes, yes, this one especially. Uh, what is it?"

Ariana furrowed her brow at him and pulled her thin lips down into a pout.

"Kidding. Just kidding. Of course this is a bunny sitting on a log having a lovely conversation with the snake in this here tree, right?" Aberforth glanced at Ariana's face and shook his head slowly. "No? Well, it's still lovely, just the same."

Albus caught himself smiling, before he was able to stop it. Despite all of his brother's shortcomings—and there were many—Aberforth was an exceptional caregiver. It was something that Albus had neither the patience nor desire for, so it was doubly remarkable, the amount of care his brother afforded Ariana.

"What about this one?"

Ariana snatched the paper from Aberforth before he could pick it up and get a proper look at it. She shuffled over to stand before Albus and held it out to him.

"Oh? Is this one for me?"

She nodded, her lips entertaining the slightest smile.

In the drawing, there were three figures standing in front of their house. Just three. That was their family now. How quickly their mother was forgotten. He wondered, for just a second, if she even understood what she had done and if she regretted it. When he looked up from the paper and into her innocent, expectant face, he concluded that she did not.

"This is a lovely portrait of our family, Ariana," he said, and she beamed with pride.

"Why don't we go put on some tea?" Aberforth announced, laying a hand on Ariana's arm to guide her out of the room. "I suppose Albus can handle dinner, and, if we're lucky, maybe tonight he won't cook it until it's an unrecognizable, black heap of tar."

Albus scoffed, but he let his brother slip past without an argument. In all honesty, he really was an exceptionally lousy cook. Besides, they were all still reeling from the hand they had been dealt. It wasn't their fault, the situation they were in, and part of the blame rested on his shoulders, too. After all, Aberforth had volunteered to become Ariana's caregiver, but Albus had insisted on his brother finishing school. They needn't all waste their futures. No, just him. That would suffice.

Three years stuck here, of all places, would feel like an eternity, but it wasn't like his wit would magically deteriorate in that time. In three years, Albus could still pursue his goals. A bit later in life, perhaps, than he intended, and maybe slightly more drained. Nevertheless, family was still family, and he couldn't just abandon them to their own devices.


	3. A Bird Learns To Fly, Part II

When asked, Albus was never quite able to articulate exactly why he chose to spend so much time in the graveyard. He might flippantly reply that, between them, the two boys had more than enough life, so they did not fear the dead. Perhaps he would confess his morbid fascination for the markers, the way a person's whole existence could be summed up with a few words and a slab of stone. But the truth was this: it was private, and unlike everything else in life, it felt right. So the graveyard had become theirs .

"Remind me again why we're here." Gellert looked sharp in his pressed trousers and dress shirt, but also bored. Not nearly as bored as he seemed in church, though.

Albus attended every Sunday to keep up appearances, if nothing else, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why Gellert went. He knew no God, as far as Albus could tell. Yet, there he'd been, sliding into the back pew beside him, like that's where he belonged.

"Because no one else comes here. That makes it perfect."

Gellert grunted as he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to the elbows. Next to go were the top two buttons of his shirt, and Albus looked away, pretending not to notice.

"Well, I suppose most people don't consider it in good form to consort with the dead."

"It's simpler than that, even. People say there's a curse." Albus held aside a shrub and motioned for Gellert to follow deeper into the cemetery, where the oldest graves lay undisturbed. They had been forfeited to nature, and she reclaimed her territory with a vengeance. Headstones hid their faces behind small trees and shrubs and ferns, and moss grew wild on whatever spare surface it could find.

Gellert held a branch for him to pass. "Do you believe it's cursed?" With a twinkle in his eye, he let the branch snap back into place, swatting Albus lightly in the back.

"No," Albus said, brushing leaves off his good clothes. _Maybe,_ his heart echoed. The people in this part of the cemetery had all been born and died in Godric's Hollow, and if that wasn't a curse, he didn't know what was. Day by day, he felt it in his bones—an insidious, gnawing fear that this would be his fate. That no matter how far he ran, how high he climbed, the Hollow would pull him back in and, eventually, devour him. Maybe he was cursed, after all.

"What's back here, anyway?" Gellert scanned the clearing. It was small and cluttered, with overgrowth nearly spilling out of its borders.

"Aside from peace and quiet?" As if that wasn't enough. "These are the oldest graves, the ones that have been forgotten."

Albus squatted down and wiped the moss from one of the stones, revealing a name lost to time: _Ignotus Peverell_.

"These are the ones who escaped from Godric's Hollow."

His finger drifted lower on the marker, to where a symbol was dug into the stone. Albus traced first the triangle, then the circle inside, then the vertical line.

"But they came back, didn't they?"

The words were a whisper in his ear, soft and warm. Gellert was right behind him now, so close that Albus swore he could feel his heart beating. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. For just a second, Albus was convinced their hearts were in sync. Given enough time, they would become one.

"Yes. And everything they accomplished in the interim?" Albus traced along the symbol again, only backward this time. "Lost."

"But you wouldn't make that mistake, would you?"

Gellert traced the symbol the other way, and at some point, their fingers overlapped and crossed. Electricity arced between them, supercharging Albus' heart until it beat double-time. Warmth flared against his back like a fire, consuming him. Hot, sticky breath puffed against his ear as Gellert leaned in close, pressing their bodies together.

"When you leave, you won't come back."

"No. I won't."

**~(X)~**

"Surely you, of all people, can picture it, can't you, Albus?" Gellert was saying as he paced back and forth among the tombstones, what little space there was.

Picture it? No, Albus couldn't picture the future; he was far too caught up in the present. The setting sun rested on the horizon like a halo just above those golden curls, making his companion little more than an ethereal shadow in the growing twilight. Those steely eyes sparked to life, reflecting the light of a hundred dreams as if they were fractals off a gemstone. The way that voice lilted and dipped, animated by his conviction, stirred Albus' soul. Society would never accept the way he felt, but was love ever truly wrong?

"It's not that simple, Gellert. You'll never manage to dethrone King George. England has always been a monarchy and always will be. Change, in that regard, has always proved futile."

"That's the beauty of it. I'm not proposing overthrowing anyone. Political coups are messy business. Quite out of my league. I'm talking about a social revolution."

There was a fire in his tone that engulfed his words, and Albus quite liked it. It was invigorating, intoxicating.

"Imagine"—Gellert lowered onto a tombstone just in front of Albus, resting lightly on the top of it—"a society led by capable people. Not just the nitwits and ninnies that erroneously believe they know a thing or two. Real intellectuals, the best of society, regardless of their class."

"It sounds brilliant, but it'll never happen."

Gellert straightened up slowly, lips transfiguring into a crooked half-smile. Albus had come to know that look well; he was about to be told exactly why he was wrong.

"Of course it can happen. People who are capable of thinking for themselves simply need to be reminded _how_ is all. They've forgotten, you see, because society says that they shouldn't think. Society says go to work, have a family, inherit your responsibilities. People like us, truly brilliant people, all they need is a little nudge in the right direction. If you free them from the burden society places on them, imagine what such a person could become. Unrestrained. Unfettered. Free to be whoever he wants to be."

Albus was no stranger to burden. In fact, disconcertingly enough, they appeared to have become strange bedfellows, an unwilling ally that he found he couldn't rid himself of. There were others out there like him. There had to be. Other people who could aspire to greatness, who could rise even out of the dredges of society.

"We'll be like benefactors, then?"

"Of course. We'll show them just how far their intellect can take them. We can do it together, Albus, you and I. We'll make an excellent pair." As he spoke, Gellert closed the gap between them slowly, step by step.

Albus' heart raced, and no amount of concentration would steady it. His palms were damp with sweat, and he buried them in the pockets of his pants so they wouldn't give him away. They had spent the afternoon talking, always with a couple tombs between them, but now…

Another step closer. Then another. What was he playing at? Albus sought an answer in Gellert's eyes, but he was forced to look away. He withered under the powerful scrutiny of that hawkish gaze, melting into the subtle softness in which he was being regarded. Like he was the only person in the world that mattered; like he was the only person in the world.

Two more steps, until they were toe to toe. Albus instinctively leaned back, only to find a tree trunk blocking his escape. There was nowhere to go now, with Gellert so close that he could smell his aftershave—a sort of sugary-sweet aroma that made his mind swim. No, it was wrong. What if someone saw them? What would they think? What … would …

As Gellert leaned closer, resting one palm on the tree to steady himself and leaving the other tucked neatly behind his back, Albus realized that he wanted this far more than he cared about what anyone in Godric's Hollow thought. A slight tickle crawled up his neck and across his cheeks. He figured he looked rather ridiculous, a grown man acting like a blushing schoolgirl. His cheeks must have been the same deep shade of red as his hair, but there was nothing he could do to stop it as the heat crept the rest of the way up his face.

"We can have the world, Albus," Gellert whispered in his ear, and the soft vibrations made his knees tremble. "We can make it anything we want it to be. We'll do it together, you and I. Always together."

_Yes,_ he wanted to say. _Always._ Their bodies were so close now, and the heat that arced between them was almost unbearable. Albus was sure he was being engulfed by flames. They weren't touching, not yet, but if he moved forward just a little, the tiniest step…

Before Albus could do anything, someone was at the gate of the cemetery calling his name. Lucky for them, they were tucked away from view toward the back of the plot, buried in the foliage where no one would be able to see.

"What do you want now, Aberforth?" Albus called back, not bothering to try to hide his annoyance.

"The sun's almost down."

"You know? I was just starting to wonder why it was getting so dark. I suppose that explains it. Thank goodness you were here."

There was a short pause and then, "I could use your help at home."

"I'm sure you can handle whatever it is. I have faith in your abilities."

"Do you really think I'd be here if it was that simple?"

"Your sister needs you," Gellert whispered, almost apologetically. The warmth receded as he took a step back, and Albus choked back the groan that threatened to spill out.

He was right—damn it, he was right—but, just once, Albus wanted him to be wrong.

He steadied himself, steeling his emotions the best he could. "Yes, I should go."

Albus pulled away, casting his eyes downward. He couldn't bear to look at Gellert, knowing that he had to walk away. He was overwhelmed with both anger and defeat, like a bird with clipped wings. At this rate, he would never know what it was like to fly.

**~(X)~**

The letter was short: one sentence on a scrap of paper. The script was bold and well-formed—borne from a mind that was determined and clear. There was only one sentence:

Come when you can get away.

Not if. When.

There was no signature. Instead, in its place, was a symbol: a circle in a triangle, bisected by a line. There was no mistaking who the letter was from.

With one last look, Albus pitched it into the fire. Only the flames knew their secrets, and who could they tell? As Albus donned his Mac jacket, Aberforth appeared in the doorway, as if the threat of his brother's happiness, however fleeting, had summoned him.

"Where are you going?" Aberforth picked absently at a scab on his forefinger, refusing to make eye contact.

"Out. I'm confident you can manage on your own."

"Something's wrong." The words were a whisper—a confession, almost, dragged out unwillingly.

"Something's always wrong, Abe. Something will always be wrong. Your worrying like a mother hen won't change that."

"No, Albus, something's wrong ."

This time, he heard what he'd missed before: fear. The words wobbled and pitched with an uncertainty not often displayed by his headstrong, foolhardy brother. Albus' pulse quickened in anticipation.

"Where?" he asked.

"The study."

With a sigh, Albus returned his jacket to the hook before starting down the hall to the study. In its former life, it had been a forbidden mystery to the Dumbledore children: a sanctuary for the eldest Dumbledore to do … well, whatever he did in it. That was one rule none of the children dared break, and so he had no idea what it had actually been used for. Stealing away for a nip of gin, for all he knew.

Now, it existed as a mausoleum, presiding over all the relics they didn't have the heart to get rid of, yet couldn't bear to see on display. The desk remained a showpiece in the center of the room. Once his father's pride and joy, it had accumulated dust and various knick-knacks that had no other home. Baubles and heirlooms were placed wherever they would fit, presumably without being destroyed, not that there was anyone left to mourn if they were.

The only important piece, as far as Albus was concerned, hung on the left wall in a golden frame—a portrait of his mother, Kendra Dumbledore. Beside it hung a matching portrait of Percival, only because they hadn't had the heart to remove it. Remembering the loss hurt, but so did forgetting.

Despite being a teenager now, Ariana had always been small for her age, and the fact was only highlighted as she stood before her mother's portrait looking small and insignificant. And delicate, like she might break at any moment. But she was already broken, and now, thanks to her, their family had shattered. Albus fought to quell the familiar burn of resentment that rose in his chest as he sidled up beside her.

"It's my fault," she whispered, never once taking her eyes off their mother's portrait.

_Yes,_ a little voice said in the back of Albus' mind. One he would never dare assign words to.

"It was an accident, Ari. Accidents happen. You didn't mean it." It was the truth, but a hollow one. "Why don't we go to the kitchen, and I'll make you a cuppa?"

Albus tried to snake his arm around Ariana's shoulders and lead her there, but she shrugged him off, and he knew better than to push when she was in one of her moods.

"It should've been me instead."

Their eyes met—the same shade of blue, though the similarities stopped there. He was a bird yearning to fly, and she was the chain tethering him to the earth, unaware of her role.

_Yes,_ Albus thought, as guilt gnawed holes in his gut, leaving gaping, festering wounds that ached with every breath. His mother, who had been fiercely intelligent and witty, with an aura big enough to fill all the voids and crannies lingering in Godric's Hollow. But what he said was, "No, of course not. Don't be silly. What would Abe and I ever do without you and all your masterpieces, hm?"

"This isn't like her, Al." Aberforth stood in the doorway, refusing to cross the threshold. Old habits die hard. Or not at all.

He was right. The voice was Ariana's, but the words felt hollow, like she was parroting someone else. She'd borrowed the sounds, but hadn't yet fully grasped the meaning. Hopefully, she never would. For her sake.

"How about a story? Rainy day like this is tailor-made for it."

"Will there be monsters?"

Albus smiled. "No, no monsters."

Who needed imaginary boogiemen, anyway? They were the monsters—the daughter who had killed her mother and the brother who loved and hated her in equal measure.

"Let's go, Ari. 'Atta girl." Aberforth held out his hand, and Ariana took it, allowing him to lead her to the parlor.

Albus sighed. Gellert would have to forgive him, but he just couldn't leave his family. Not tonight. Not ever. It was one thing, in a long line of things, that would remain unattainable. Might as well get accustomed to it now.


End file.
